Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

by AJ Rico

  "But—" I tried to interject only to be silenced by a stern look.

  "Pit bulls are wonderful animals. Personally, my favorite breed. But, whatever you think of a normal dog, multiply it by three. They are three times more loyal, three times more stubborn, three times more powerful, and three times more loving.

  If you aren't prepared to give back at least that much, it's pointless. A pit bull with a weak owner is a potentially destructive dog. I won't take any chances with him."

  I was quiet as he finished, not quite sure where to go. All my strategies were failing. Mr. T was having none of my usual manipulations. Panic began to set in and with no better plan in sight, I threw caution to the wind and decided to be honest. I figured he had already put me in the "no" column, it couldn't get any worse.

  "Sir," I began again, "I admit that Hugo is my first dog let alone my first pit bull, but I think we're destined for each other."

  Now that I'd gotten started, the words flowed. I told him about finding Hugo on the street. About moving and my discomfort as a woman alone. I left Lumpy out of it. I told him about the connection I felt with Hugo when I saw him again.

  "So, I realize I'm new at this, but I hope you'll give me a chance."

  I finished feeling drained after such an out-of-character speech. He looked out my tiny window for several seconds, saying nothing, before rising to his feet. My shoulders slumped and tears welled. I'd lost. He was all the way to the door before he said, "You coming?"

  My head shot up and confusion reigned, but I kept my mouth shut as I followed him. He led me to an unmarked van. As we got close, he whistled and a blocky, silver head rose up in the passenger seat and poked out the lowered window.

  I couldn't contain my grin as I moved over to the window. I stroked his silky muzzle and he licked my hand. Unable to contain myself and further, I asked, "Does this mean I get to have him?"

  Mr. T was looking contemplative, but shook his head. My grin fell. "It means we're going to walk him together and see."

  My cheeks couldn't have lifted higher with helium. Who couldn't walk a dog?

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, I had new respect for all the people I saw with calm dogs walking at a normal pace. Mr. T had given me some basic instruction and demonstrated by walking Hugo the first few blocks. He handed him off to me and we went from a calm stroll to lurching this way and that. Hugo sniffed and perused every tree, shrub, and step in the neighborhood.

  Finally, through sheer desperation, I pulled Hugo close, got his collar right up around his ears, took a deep breath and marched forward not giving the dog the opportunity to do anything more than follow me. He tried, but I wasn't having it. By the time we made it back to my building, my arms hurt and so did my back.

  As I held open the outer door, I turned to Mr. T and raised an eyebrow. He winked before saying, "Let's go fill out those papers."

  My reply was lost as Hugo ran up the steps dragging me behind him. Mr. T just laughed. When he caught up to us, he said, "Obviously, you'll have to work with him on steps too."

  Once back inside the Closet, I filled out and signed more paper than I had to the one time I bought a car. Among the promises I made were to: never fight Hugo, never take him to a dog park, never abuse him, return him to the shelter if it didn't work out, and enroll him in obedience class. When I finally finished and handed over the check for the adoption fee, my hands were cramping.

  Pocketing the check, Mr. T stood, shook my hand and said, "Congratulations, Ms. Wolfe. He's all yours." To Hugo he said, "Be good to her, boy," and took his leave.

  I locked the door and, left alone with Hugo, I took a deep breath and exhaled all the tension I'd felt until that moment. Rubbing the back of my neck, I stretched to loosen all my muscles and turned only to shriek. Hugo, lay across my bed, rather than on the bed I'd bought him. I could see the dog hair on the deep purple comforter from across the room.

  "No!" I hollered. "Bad boy. Off!" I clapped my hands.

  He ignored me, never so much as lifting his head.

  Oh, no, no, no. I stomped across the room and pushed at him until he sort of jumped, sort of fell off my bed. He looked at me and huffed out a doggy argument before crouching like he planned to go right back where he was.

  "No!" I blocked him by stepping between him and my bed.

  He gave himself a violent head-to-toe shake, yawned, and walked into the middle of the room onto the area rug. Just as I congratulated myself for coming out on top of that exchange, Hugo looked back at me, catching my eyes, and proceeded to pee slam on my new rug.

  * * *

  By the end of our first week together, I was ready to beg Lumpy to put me out of my misery. While Hugo was being quite effective as an early warning system—he barked at every little sound—he failed to obey me. He continued to sneak onto my bed when I wasn't watching, and he'd eaten my favorite, and last, pair of Jimmy Choos.

  I was beginning to wonder if I'd gotten the raw end of the deal. The only accord the dog and I had come to was meal times. He ate when I ate and he was filling out a bit. But, I couldn't leave him alone for any length of time. If I left him in the house unrestrained, he found something to chew. So, I'd resorted to locking him in the bathroom every time I left—after removing any toiletry he could eat. The soap incident had left me scarred for life and the Poison Control Center on speed dial. I'd considered a crate, but I had neither the money nor the space.

  This was not how I had imagined it would be. He was supposed to do what I said, when I said it, love me unconditionally, and pretty much worship the ground I walked on. Instead, I felt like I was in some kind of power struggle with my dog.

  I was tense and depressed and had no outlet. I hadn't been back to Kona since my awkward discussion with Henry. I missed my routine, missed my coffee, missed my life, and even missed Adam when Hugo was at his worst.

  Unable to contain it any longer, I wailed, bringing Hugo to his feet, his ears twitching like bug antennae in agitation.

  "Bathroom! Now!" I screeched at Hugo. All my resentment at my current situation finding its focus in the dog I hadn't been able to live without just a few days ago.

  For once, he didn't argue with me in that doggy way of his. He just lowered his head and slunk off, stopping once to look over his shoulder at me in a hopeful you don't really mean this do you?

  I stamped my foot, pointed and said, "Now!" He took the final steps into the small cubicle, circled twice before flopping himself down on the bathroom mat with a huff. I interpreted that to mean he intended to get me back for this.

  At that moment, I didn't care. I needed to get out. I needed to get rid of the feeling that my skin was too tight and that the pressure building in my chest was going to overwhelm me.

  I grabbed my purse and ran out of the building keeping up the accelerated pace until I arrived at the Metro station. I contained my agitation until I arrived at Dupont Circle. Exiting the confines of the station, I merged into the late afternoon hustle. The street flowed with people all with some intent purpose infused into their movements.

  I wanted to cry at the spear of longing that pierced me. This was where I belonged. This was my corner of the city. I was happy here. I had no specific destination in mind, but my feet had no such lack and before I knew it, I was standing in front of Kona.

  Every ounce of me vibrated to go inside, but I couldn't. Henry was there, sitting at my table. Kona had been my center, my hub, and without it, my feelings of loss and disorientation grew.

  I'd have to confront Henry if I went in. My gut told me that he wouldn't ignore me the way others did when I argued with them, or worse, insulted them as I had Henry. If that weren't bad enough, I felt almost compelled to apologize. I never apologized unless it furthered my agenda.

  I mean, what's the use? You can't undo the past so apologies just weaken your position and put you at the other person's mercy. I'd always chosen to cut off the relationship rather than apologize when there was no tangible
gain. I rarely did things I didn't mean, so my apologies would have been wind. It had never seemed worth it.

  I gazed at Henry through the bay window, taking in his silvered head bent over some magazine as he sipped a large coffee. It struck me that I wanted to take back my words. I wanted to tell him I was sorry and tease him about breaking more British stereotypes with his denim work shirt and cargo pants.

  Before the full import of these thoughts could crystallize in my mind, a barista came over to Henry and he looked up with a smile. I lurched aside so he couldn't see me and fled, cursing the pollen that had to be high for my eyes to be watering as they were.

  6. The Sex Trade

  THE BAR I ENDED UP in was one I'd passed many times but never entered. Adam called it "too pedestrian"—whatever that meant. I just wanted a strong drink in a place that wouldn't depress me further.

  The interior was clean and well-lit for a neighborhood bar. The decor was a mix of sports and vintage Hollywood memorabilia with movie posters and jerseys lining the walls. High-backed booths with broken-in leather seats outlined the main floor. There was a smattering of tables and chairs throughout. It felt more like someone's den than a bar.

  The patrons were a blend of blue- and white-collar who seemed to be eating as much as they were drinking. Best of all, the conversation level, while animated was not obnoxious. There was no overhead music playing, something so many places had adopted—a practice I hate. If I wanted to listen to music while I drank, I'd go to a club. Plus, it's usually cranked up way too high, forcing you to shout. In general, if I walk into a restaurant and loud music is playing, I leave.

  Rather than take a table, I made my way to one of the stools fronting the bar. I ordered a whiskey sour from the Amazonian bartender. Despite out-sizing half the men there, she was pleasant and made a mean cocktail. She'd gotten the balance just right on the alcohol versus mixer, something harder than it sounds. I like my cocktails just strong enough that I know the alcohol is there, but not so strong it bites back going down.

  She served it with a maraschino cherry and I sucked the macerated fruit off the stem. A male figure sat beside me within moments.

  I smirked. Like flies to honey.

  It never takes long for an unattached woman to draw potential suitors. I wasn't in the mood even though I usually relish this game. These men wanted me enough to put their egos on the line and risk rejection for the privilege of fucking me. It is its own form of buzz.

  Tonight, it seemed stupid. In a moment of alcohol-induced clarity, I realized, I wasn't special to any of these men. I was just something they were playing the odds over. Any good-looking woman would do. I, Charlotte, wasn't relevant.

  There is a saying in the Real Estate industry: You have to look at a hundred houses to find one worth buying. It had dawned on me that it's the same way for men. It takes ten women saying no before they get to a yes. So, they have to play the odds.

  "That's quite a turn on," the man's oily voice matched his hair. "How about a private performance?"

  This man embodied the slur "Guido." He was every stereotype of Italian mobster wannabe.

  "No, thank you," I didn't even bother looking at him, hoping my indifference would do my talking for me.

  "You're a pretty lady to be all by yourself. Why don't you let Carlo keep you company?” He placed a large, beefy hand on my thigh.

  "If Carlo wants to keep his hand intact, he'll stop fucking touching me."

  My rudeness shocked even me, but I had nothing left in the tank.

  The Amazon who'd been wiping glasses stepped in at my words.

  "Carlo, not only are you cut off, but I'm telling your ma about this."

  Carlo lost every ounce of swagger at the threat. He put his hands up in surrender and his eyes looked like they'd pop out of his head with a sharp knock.

  "Nikki, cuz, you can't tell ma. She threatened to throw me out."

  "She also told you to stop harassing women and get a job."

  "Nik, please, don't."

  "Go home an' I'll think about it."

  She nodded toward the door. Carlo mumbled an apology as he shuffled by. I just shook my head and went back to my drink.

  "Sorry about that," she threw the towel she'd been using over one shoulder. "My cousin thinks he's some kind of ladies’ man. He’s watched too many gangster movies."

  "It's all good." I waved a hand in dismissal. "Par for the course, unfortunately." I raised my glass in salute before taking a sizable gulp.

  Nikki moved down the bar to tend to the other loners. I took another big gulp, closing my eyes against the burn as I swallowed. Another rustle of fabric on leather accompanied by the briefest hint of spicy cologne. Another hopeful had taken up the challenge.

  "If you're going to drink that fast, you might want to order some food too."

  Every cell in my body went on alert. I knew that voice. Opening my eyes, I smiled at Greg Haldane.

  * * *

  His clothes were casual making him appear both relaxed and effortless. The complete opposite of his executive shark persona that I'd become acquainted with. It was disorienting.

  "How is the food?" I asked, "Is it worth ordering?"

  "Absolutely."

  He waved at the bartender. Her face lit up in a way that let me know both that Greg was a regular and that she liked with him. She waved in return as she mouthed "be right there."

  "A regular, I see."

  "Yup," he nodded. "I live upstairs."

  "Wow," I said. That impressed me. The Goff building was a sought after piece of real estate. A resident usually died in order for a unit opened up. "How did you score a place there?"

  "Someone died." He said it so deadpan that I thought he was serious and almost choked on my drink. "Jokes aside, one of the board members retired and moved to Europe to be closer to his grandchildren. I swooped in."

  "Nice going. I'd kill to get in the Goff building."

  "You don't have to commit murder. You can come back with me."

  Our eyes met and I saw the calculating invitation there. Nikki's approach spared me the need to respond. Greg ordered a beer and we agreed to share an order of nachos.

  There was an expectant air about Greg as we conversed about small things, postponing the subject. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. He was putting out all the come hither vibes and the contracts were already signed, so my gig was in place.

  Maybe a fling with a married man was just what I needed. He wouldn't be able to tie me up with strings. I'd get my ego stroked and disappear as soon as the project was over. The fact that I was rationalizing my hypocrisy was not lost on me; I just chose to ignore it. Depression was setting in. I'd lost everything and I deserved something out of this fiasco.

  Before I could change my mind, I placed a hand on his thigh, leaned in close and said, "Sure your wife won't mind you giving me a personal tour?"

  A look flashed across his face too quick for me to decipher. He downed the last of his beer, and looked me in the eye as he said, "I can guarantee it."

  Smiling, I responded, "Lead the way then."

  Gathering up my purse, I let Greg know I was stepping to the ladies’ room while he settled the bill. While I freshened up, I denied the kernel of disapproval my subconscious insisted on coughing up. It niggled like a pebble in my shoe.

  I shook my head as if I could dislodge it. I deserved something, dammit. I was taking this and would deal with the consequences later.

  Turning my back on my reflection, I met Greg outside the entrance to the bar. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and was staring at the moon. It was a hunter's moon and had the deep hue of a blood orange. It hung atop the city like a gigantic citrus fruit.

  He turned as he heard me approach, pasting on a smile. A trickle of doubt pierced my intentions at his need to put in effort. It's my experience that men who want to get laid don't act like they're facing a task as unpleasant as reciting multiplication tables.

  "Ready?" His eyes ran over my
body as he spoke and I pushed the doubt aside.

  "Yup."

  He guided me through the main door, placing a hand on the small of my back. The lobby had marble floors and plush, modern seating. The elevator opened immediately to reveal an immaculate car done in chrome and gleaming wood.

  The building, at least, met my expectations. I had doubts Greg would, but I wasn't looking for soul-stealing sex. This was about collecting the ego trip. I only cared how much he wanted it, not whether I got off. I was as likely to fake it as not.

  On that score, we were not off to a good start. He wasn't looking at me, nor was he speaking. He held himself like a man intent on achieving a result. Hell, I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. But, there was no sexual energy to speak of.

  In the early days of our relationship, Adam would have had me pressed against the wall and his hand up my shirt. There was just tense anticipation rolling off Greg but it was the kind you experience when you're about to get a vaccination.

  This was not good.

  I opened my mouth to suggest we call it off when the car stopped and the doors swung open. Greg took my hand and led me a short way down the hall to a heavy mahogany door. He entered a code in a number pad next to the door and the sound of the lock opening was almost inaudible.

  "Nice," I said suitably impressed.

  "That's nothing," he grinned, his first genuine emotion since he'd sat down next to me.

  Inside, I felt like a child in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - home decor edition. The furniture was plush and luxurious with lots of museum quality art adorning the walls. As we moved from room to room, lights turned on or off without intervention. Greg spoke to hidden sensors to turn on soft jazz music and raise the shades.

  His view as amazing. The entire city glowed before us. The Washington Monument shone in all its phallic glory in the distance.

  "Wow," I heard my voice crack. That was my city and I loved it.

  "I know," he said stepping close and turning me to face him.

  He was finally demonstrating interest, which was a move in the right direction. He pressed his lips to mine, tasting of the beer he'd had. I leaned in to reciprocate. As planned, he took my response as invitation and deepened the kiss before walking me back to the sofa.